Slash and Burn
by My Misguided Fairytale
Summary: "Ten days. You have that long to run from me. If you can evade me for ten days, you get to keep the Ring and your life." / Kashipping Diabound x Blue Eyes, Outcastshipping Kisara x TKB


Title: Slash and Burn

Genres: Romance, Suspense

Summary: "Ten days. You have that long to run from me. If you can evade me for ten days, you get to keep the Ring and your life." / Kashipping (Diabound x Blue Eyes), Outcastshipping (Kisara x Thief Bakura)

A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest FINALS (oh my gosh! xD) Round 8—Kashipping (Diabound x Blue Eyes White Dragon), although this story also contains a copious amount of Outcastshipping (Thief Bakura x Kisara). You know it's a crazy pairing when one of the characters isn't even on the drop-down character list xD hehe. Takes place during/after the AE arc, and uses elements from episodes 13, 208, and 214 of the YGO anime. Italicized sections represent Kisara's dreams.

Dedicated to the wonderful _Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker_ for your continued support and friendship. Thanks as well to everyone who participated in the Contest, Season 7. I couldn't have asked for a better experience in the contest, and I have you to thank!

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Slash and Burn**_

Kisara opens her eyes slowly. Her entire body feels heavy, like she has been asleep for a very long time—and for all she knows, she has been. The air is equally as heavy, and the green haze of the dense fog allows her to see only as far as the glade she finds herself ensconced within.

The ground she is lying on is moss-covered, and surprisingly soft; as Kisara stands and begins to survey her new surroundings she finds that the ground is the same, the dirt seeming to cushion her feet with every step, the knots of green moss and lichens and sparing clusters of thin trees the same shade of green as the misty sky. It is a shade of green Kisara has never seen before, and never in such quantity.

Her next thoughts are to the catalogue of her memory, where Kisara wonders just how she came to be _here_ when she so clearly remembers being _there_—the hot sand and hotter sun of Egypt, saving the boy who saved her own life as a child, repaying her debt, the cry of the monster sealed inside her body—yet there could not be a greater difference between the familiarity of her homeland and this strange, unknown place.

And just where is _here? _

Kisara stumbles over the uneven ground, clutching a nearby tree branch in one hand to steady herself. It breaks off in her hand with a clear snap, startling her, and she glances at the thin branch in her hand—it is unlike any wood she has seen before. With another step, Kisara realizes why the sound of the splintered branch is so startling, so unexpectedly loud—

The entire world around her is strangely devoid of sound. She tosses the branch to the ground—nothing. She even tries to press more heavily into the ground with her steps, but the moss seems to cushion all sound of her movement. There is nothing, the closer she examines her surroundings—the sound of the wind is absent, as is the sound of movement or motion. As it appears, everything is standing perfectly still—the thin, skeletal trees, the miasma that hovers in place over the ground to the entirety of Kisara's vision—and that is when she spots something glinting in the dull light further off in the distance.

A signal? A warning? Kisara treads with trepidation towards the source of the reflection. She walks for what feels like hours—although how much time really has passed is still a mystery, as Kisara realizes she has no way of keeping time and the sky remains unchanging—it is as if the sun is so high in the sky that what little light diffuses down to the surface of the ground is not enough to give any indication of day or night, but only a constant sense of dawn or dusk, perpetual half-light.

The distance is much farther than anticipated, but Kisara has nothing more pressing than the curiosity of the far-off glint of metal, but it eventually rests at her feet and she finds it to be some sort of half-buried piece of gold or some similar material.

Her fingers dig through the slimy loam to unearth the piece of jewelry, brightly polished despite its former lodgings in the ground.

Kisara turns the necklace over in her hands, the clinking of the disjointed pieces oddly loud in the absence of any other sounds. It is strangely shaped—circular, with five dangling pointed spines connected to the center disk, with a Wedjat eye in the middle, a shape all too familiar to her.

A strange gold object with a Wedjat eye—Kisara had seen something similar, in Priest Seto's Millennium Rod.

The necklace—for she can tell it is such by the leather cord attached—still seems like a disappointing find after wandering around for so long, but Kisara slips it over her head nonetheless, feeling the weight settle on her chest.

Strange—Kisara has never held this much gold before in her life, but she's always assumed it would be much heavier than this necklace is, and it almost seems warm through the thin linen of her dress to her skin.

She gasps and steps back as the necklace begins to tremble slightly and the metal grows hot to the touch—Kisara tries to rip it off but the gold is too hot, and all five spines lift perpendicular to the ring to point to a spot in the mist to Kisara's left. She turns, still holding the cord as far away from her body as she can so that the metal does not burn her, and stares with growing curiosity and concern as the spines adjust themselves to point straight ahead.

Kisara stares at the necklace and then takes one careful step forward, then two, finding each subsequent step considerably easier after the first. As she walks, the necklace seems to cool until it feels just as it did when she pulled it from the earth—cool, plain, ordinary metal.

It crosses her mind once or twice that she does not know what this compass-necklace is leading her towards, but she turns and follows the direction of the spines regardless, trusting that they will show her the way home. She doesn't like it—trusting this cognizant piece of metal, but she attributes the unpleasant, uneasy feeling in her stomach to her own anxiety over the unfamiliar around her—it worries her as well that since waking, she has not felt the desire to eat or drink, nor have her feet tired from walking or her arms tired from holding the necklace.

The ground has become much more uneven. Kisara spots sections where it looks like boulders have lodged themselves into the mossy ground or where the ground itself is dislodged and jagged, leading to small fissures or steps into the soil. A lifetime of walking on sand has not prepared her for this kind of terrain, and Kisara stumbles down a path, feeling the slippery moss beneath her give out as she struggles to regain her footing. She glances down to plan her next step and her eyes widen when she spots a clearly defined footprint in the grass next to her own.

It is not an illusion—there are more of them, forming a path through the worst of the uneven ground. The footprints are much larger than hers, and Kisara walks in the same steps, avoiding the deep fissures in the ground and traversing the path, realizing shortly that the direction of the spines also matches that of the footprints.

It takes another few moments of walking until the spines of the necklace begin to shake again and with one final shudder, fall down to rest motionless. The footsteps are everywhere now, crisscrossing her path with enough intensity that Kisara would almost believe that many people had recently been here, if not for her intuition and the noticeable similarity in the size of each footprint.

She wonders who the owner could be, and bends down slightly to observe the closest footprint more thoroughly—by the size, she can tell it belongs to a male. By the distance in his stride, she can tell he must be quite tall. The indentations are present but not deep, suggesting that he wears sandals but not boots, and Kisara feels compelled to trace the edge of one footprint with her finger, for the first time feeling the isolation around her.

Her finger comes away coated in dirt, so she wipes it clean against the hem of her dress, watching the cream-colored linen turn dark from the color of the soil. Her ears have become so accustomed to the near-emptiness of sound that she almost doesn't hear the voice that calls out from behind her.

"Well, this is certainly unexpected."

The realization seizes its way through her entire body and the shock locks her feet to the ground. Slowly, she stands, turning even more slowly to glimpse the first person she's seen in this strange place with wide eyes.

Unexpected, like he said, yet she couldn't help but feel like she'd been waiting for him. White hair, like her own, but dirt-streaked and unkempt. Sandals, like she'd guessed. Tall. And quite male.

"Who are you?" She takes one step towards him, but the expression on his face changes so suddenly upon seeing her that she feels once again frightened by the suddenness of his introduction.

"Where did you get that?"

"What?"

Kisara realizes that he was not looking at her—he was looking at the necklace. She lifts a hand to touch it gingerly, watching his reaction. "This?"

"That does not belong to you. Give it back." He speaks through clenched teeth, stepping close enough to her that she can see the undisguised fury in his eyes. She recognizes the torment there, and the isolation—those she has first-hand experience with.

She glances down at the gold ornament around her neck, and back to him. He feels his anger is justified—he wants the necklace, that much is clear, but more out of greed or desperation than out of a sense of custody.

"Can you prove it?"

He stops short, but his fury simmers enough that the smirk that grows across his lips insinuates something far more threatening.

"I don't have to. I take what's mine. _Diabound!_"

Kisara shudders at the almost tangible sudden change in pressure in the air. Out of the fog materializes a dark shape, growing stronger with each second until Kisara can see it clearly—a Shadow monster with wings and dark, stone-like skin, whose lower body coils into the head of a snake.

"What is that?" Kisara remembers the Shadow monsters she'd seen before, in the short battles between Priest Akunadin and High Priest Seto, but none had been this massive or terrifying. Its form seemed to change each time Kisara blinked, its coloring shifting into darker purples or grays, its wings curling and unfolding, the hiss of the snake-head percolating the now-overabundance of sound.

"Your deliverance from purgatory, if you refuse to hand over the Ring."

"Ring?" Her hands move to the necklace again, wondering what powers it might have if this man is so desperate to obtain it. "What is its purpose?"

"I'm not in the mood to play games with you today."

"Wait—I—" Kisara begins, trying her best to remember—she had a _ká_ like his, it was the entire reason she had suffered like she had, but every time it had withdrawn from her soul it was brought through pain and force. She did not know how to use its power to protect herself—it had only appeared when she was under attack, yet here she was, and _where_ was her _ká?_

"Why should I wait to hear your appeals when this is so much more satisfying? Diabound, eliminate her!"

Kisara shrieks as the monster moves closer, but before his strike can land the Ring glows brightly again, the light almost blinding in its intensity. Through the brilliance she can make out the stranger, illuminated against the backdrop of dreary moss and skeletal trees, watching his expression turn to disbelief followed closely by outrage.

"Diabound! What are you waiting for?"

The monster remains unmoving, and Kisara feels the overwhelming relief flood through her body as her fingers reach back up to curl themselves protectively around the Ring, wondering if it might hold the answers she seeks—and if the Ring does not, perhaps the stranger does?

Feeling a little more bold, Kisara asks him, "Where is this place? Where are we?"

His loud laugh surprises her. "You mean you haven't figured it out, yet?" He eyes the necklace once more. "What will you give me, for the answers?"

Her fingers tighten around the metal. "This Ring is useless to _me_, but you seem to want it badly enough." She pauses, before unwinding the Ring from her neck and moving to hold it over one of the deep fissures in the ground. She cannot see how deep it goes, but estimates that it would be nearly impossible to get something out once it had fallen in.

"What would you do if I—" She mimes dropping it in, loosening her grip on the leather cord enough to watch him pale. True, the Ring did save her life, but to Kisara that did not change the fact that she still knows nothing about it, its supposed owner, or this strange place.

"Don't throw it away! Do you know what this can do?"

"No," she says stubbornly. "But you seem to, so I think I'll hold onto it for a while longer."

"This can send me home! If I could just hold it for a moment…" He begins, but Kisara clutches the Ring closer, wrapping her fingers around the dangling spines.

"You can't. If it has that kind of power, tell _me_ how to do it, so _I _can go home."

"Demanding little thing, aren't you?"

They stand in silence, the weight of the stillness overwhelming them like a heavy wool blanket. Kisara takes the time to slip the Ring back over her neck, making sure the cord doesn't catch on her hair.

"I see the Ring has bonded to you."

"What does that mean?" She glances down at the necklace, the spines lying innocently flat and unmoving, the gold glinting in the uneven light.

"A large headache." He sounds aggravated, and Kisara wonders just what else this Ring can do. If he is correct—she doesn't dare to think about it.

"What else does the Ring do?" She asks.

"You've gotten enough information for free." He grins at her, shark-like and suggestive. "Anything additional will cost you. Give me the ring."

"No! What could you even give me in return?"

"Your life isn't enough?" He growls.

"You like games, don't you?"

She meant it as a simple statement, but his tone changes instantly, his lips curving up into the thinnest of smiles.

"Yes…I propose a _game_."

"You said you weren't in the mood to play games with me today," she repeats his earlier words, but his smile only grows.

"I changed my mind."

"Fine." Kisara draws herself up as much as she can. "What are your terms?"

He holds up both hands; palms out, fingers spread. "Ten days. You have that long to run from me. If you can evade me for ten days, you get to keep the Ring and your life."

"What will you do?"

"I'll be chasing you."

Kisara stiffens, noting the implications. "And if I lose…?"

"_When_ you lose," he amends, "the Ring will return to me, and _you_, my dear, will also be mine."

She averts her eyes from his for a moment, for the first time feeling all too cold under his heated gaze.

"And if I don't agree?"

He laughs. "There is no _choice_ here—the game has already started."

He regards her once more. "Take good care of my Ring, will you? I'll want it back in good condition. And you can call me Bakura. You should know the name of the person who will be responsible for your demise."

"My name is Kisara," she replies. "You should know the name of the person who is going to beat you."

"Ki-_sa_-ra." He pronounces her name slowly, savoring each syllable. "How your delusions must keep you company. Pretty dreams will not help you win, girl. You don't know this, but I have never lost a game of my own design."

"What if I refuse to play? What can I gain from this game?" She asks.

He walks slowly around her as Kisara turns to keep facing him, locking her inside a circle of his footprints. "You can forfeit, if you want. It saves me the time. But if you win, I'll tell you how to use the Ring. Thief's honor."

"Thieves have no honor," she mutters.

Even small sounds carry in the empty air, and Bakura's lips stretch into another smirk as he hears her words.

"You might as well just start running. I'll follow you in one hour."

"I don't want to play your game" she says stubbornly.

"You're only prolonging the inevitable," he replies calmly. "There is no other possibility. If you want to survive, you have to play my game. You have to obey my rules."

Kisara swallows. No choices—when has she ever had a choice? What chance does she really have?

"Start running."

She does—one hand clutching the Ring to keep it from banging against her chest as she runs, glancing back once to watch him; Bakura's eyes seem to sear into hers until she can't see him anymore, but the hulking figure of his Diabound remains visible over the barren, monochrome land.

After a few minutes, Kisara's stamina wanes and she slows to a hurried walk, choosing to change her path as she darts right past another knot of thin trees—she doesn't want to make things any easier on her pursuer by running in a straight line. She tries to vary her path as much as possible, stepping on the mosses or rocks to leave as few visible footprints as possible. She doesn't know how much time has passed, or if he will honor his word and wait the predetermined hour before following, but her breathing is loud and labored—he could almost track her by the sound alone.

Kisara pauses to drop to the ground, catching her breath as she sits in a cluster of thin, celadon-colored grasses. Her arms and legs are already shaking—she is sure she's never run this hard or this long in her entire life, and the insecurities crowd her mind.

_What if I can't do this?_

_What if I…_

…_fail? _

Her fingers pick at the spines on the Ring as she wonders why a piece of gold jewelry could have such consequences, such importance. Her thumb smoothes over the Wedjat eye in the center, feeling the intricate craftsmanship in every detail of the metalworking when the surface of the Ring begins to warm, and she feels the temperature soar in seconds under her fingertips until the gold seems to glow from the heat.

Kisara is on her feet in an instant, clutching the Ring's cord as she watches the spines rise with terror to point to a spot far off to her right.

_What is the Ring—?_

The realization comes crashing down on Kisara with the force and suddenness of a sandstorm—the spines have always been pointing to _him_. He is the compass' North.

And he is getting closer.

She runs in the opposite direction, ducking low tree branches in her haste to get away. The Ring is still hot, and the spines are still pointing away—it must be a sign.

She remembers how it led her to him in the first place—when the spines point straight ahead, it means he is close—directly ahead or behind her. When the spines drop, he is either out of its range or right in front of her.

Kisara runs like she's never run in her life, nearly flying over the flat, even land. The landscape has changed slightly—the grasses are taller and the trees are more plentiful, with thin curtains of moss hanging listlessly over the branches. She tries not to disturb them as she runs—there is still no wind, no sound, nothing to indicate his movement or presence, and although she tries to cover her tracks she knows he is likely following her every footstep.

She darts right as the spines change direction again, the leather of her sandals cutting into her feet. He may not know it—that she can identify his own location. She only hopes she has enough of an advantage to escape him for the moment.

Kisara knows she cannot maintain her pace for long, and terror fills her as the Ring begins to cool and the spines begin to straighten out. She is unsure now whether the quivering of the spines on the Ring is due to their recognition of their original owner or the trembling of her fingers.

She spins, simultaneously ducking behind a cluster of trees, huddling against the petrified bark and trying to push herself into a crevice in the ground near its displaced roots. The crevice is narrow and barely large enough for her, but Kisara is small enough to wedge herself further into the ground, hoping the low-lying mosses surrounding the trees will hide her as she spots the giant figure of Diabound materialize in the distance, skimming quickly over the land and hovering over the trees.

Kisara's heart sinks—_that cheat!_ Using his _ká _to flush her out—Bakura must not be far behind.

She remembers how strong she felt when she had her dragon behind her, its power supplementing her own will to live, to protect. It would never abandon her—it is a part of her.

_Where, then, is it? Why won't it answer me? Why won't it…protect me?_

Her hands grip the edges of the Ring as the spines drop, tightening as she watches Diabound move, surveying the land around him. She cannot hear or sense Bakura's presence, but she hugs her arms around her chest and the Ring, trying to minimize any chance of the gold's shine giving her away. She should blend in—white hair, skin, and dress in a world entirely devoid of concentrated colors, and as Diabound draws closer Kisara draws in a deep breath of air and clamps her mouth shut tightly, unwilling to let even the sound of her breathing give her away.

She waits, the seconds passing in agonizing slowness as she spies Diabound passing not twenty feet to the right of her hiding space through the spaces between the bone-white roots of the tree.

With her head pressed to the ground, she begins to feel the vibrations, steady and slow. Bakura's footprints.

She squeezes her eyes tight, feeling the pressure in her chest build as her lungs struggle without a break for air.

She hears it clearly now—the sweep of the moss, the cracking of broken branches. Bakura is not trying to hide his presence. He doesn't have to—this is his game, after all.

Diabound stops, and Kisara hears Bakura's voice—calm, articulate, and ingenious.

"Any sign?"

His _ká_ is unresponsive. Kisara almost wishes she could see Bakura, to see the expression on his face, to know how close he was—but if she could see him then he could also see her. In this world, exposure to any of the senses was dangerous—it could mean the end.

Her lungs burn but the pain helps keep her mind clear. The overwhelming silence has its own white noise—a heavy, all-encompassing weight almost tangible in its even, constant pressure.

"Her trail has disappeared. How interesting—I love a game with a good opponent."

Kisara waits for him to move, leave, _anything_. The soil around her and the tangled roots of the trees are surprisingly temperate, almost calming, but their consolation is nothing compared to the relief she feels as Bakura's footsteps pick up again, heading past her.

"Come on, this way."

She waits until she can no longer hear anything before she lets herself gasp for breath, wiping the sweat from her forehead with dirt-streaked fingers and giving herself the luxury of lying there against the mosses, as still and peaceful as her surroundings.

For the moment, she was safe.

After everything she'd been through, Kisara figures that nine more days of _this_ might just fulfill Bakura's desire and kill her.

She can't bring herself to crawl out from underneath the crevice—she's too tired, too overwhelmed. She can't run from him forever, but she learned that she can't win by running. What would make the most sense would be to find somewhere to hide—somewhere he couldn't find her, wouldn't _think_ to find her.

She rests her head against one arm, curling herself closer against the cover of the mosses, watching with mild fascination as the spines of the Ring once again rise to point in the direction of Bakura's path.

Kisara falls asleep to the comforting lullaby of the quietude, fingers still curled around the heated Ring.

* * *

_Kisara walks across the cracked stone; uneven through erosion by time or weather, she is unsure. Mosses and weeds creep through the cracks, growing and expanding almost before her eyes. She can make out the remains of columns and archways, more slabs of aged stone half-sunken into the ground. This place was a courtyard once, maybe. _

_Bakura is seated before her, in a cluster of trees with moss draped over the branches, woven through with wildflowers and hints of color. A narrow rock serves as his bench, but she almost misses him, so focused is she on her surroundings. He regards her calmly before gesturing with one hand to the empty space on the rock beside him; she seats herself before she has even bothered to think about his offer._

"_What am I—?"_

"_It doesn't surprise me," he says. "You are—for the moment—connected to the Ring. The Ring is a part of me. So, in turn, our souls can connect in this way. All souls who have possessed the Ring are connected forever." _

"_I am asleep." She says it to remind herself of that fact; that where she is now is a creation and extension of the troublesome Ring around her neck. Bakura has not taken his eyes off of it since she arrived._

"_So am I," he replies, his tone brusque. "That should be obvious."_

"_I thought I was safe in sleep." _

_He scoffs, "Do not worry, I still do not know where you are." He allows a sliver of a grin to pierce through to her. "Yet."_

"_What else can the Ring do?" She asks. She has not removed her fingers from its frame since the game began._

"_Have we discussed the payment of my knowledge yet?" He responds, leaning back and idly catching a falling flower blossom, the same red color as his cloak. _

"_What would you like?"_

_He closes his hand over the flower, before opening it and tossing the smashed blossom onto the ground._

"_Take a look around you, Kisara. What do you see?"_

_She glances at him. "Don't you have eyes, thief?"_

"_Yes, but I believe I asked you a question."_

_She obliges him. "I see a lot of rocks. Trees. Flowers. I see what you see."_

"_Do you?" He doesn't wait for her response. "This world is beautiful in spring. It's too bad no one will ever really see it."_

"_I don't understand," she says. _

"_Flowers are put on the graves of the dead for the first one hundred days." He answers, turning his head towards her and lifting a hand to catch and discard another falling flower._

_Kisara watches how easily Bakura seems to blend into the explosion of nature around them. This land is blooming with life—yet it looks so familiar—the low-lying grasses, the thin, bone-like trees, the hazy, pre-dusk light. Where does it all go when they wake?_

"_You should go, you know. I'm going to chase you again, and you're not ready yet."_

_The stone is cold against her fingers and legs, and Kisara is only too happy to stand and walk away from him, again glancing over her shoulder to be sure he does not follow. They are still playing a game, after all._

_Bakura remains long after Kisara has left. _

"_I wonder if anyone will put flowers on our graves?"_

_

* * *

_Kisara wakes suddenly, unclenching her fingers from the Ring and hissing in pain at the protesting muscles. Her legs are stiff as well, like this rest meant nothing to her body.

The Ring is motionless. Bakura must be far enough away that it is not responding to his presence, and for that Kisara is glad. A string of moss dangles from the lowest branches of the tree above her, and Kisara reaches out a hand to touch it, surprised by how soft it is. She tries to imagine what the tree would look like alive in color, but the image cannot form in her mind—it is as though her waking vision has saved only the monochrome in her memory and abandoned the rest.

She spends the rest of the day hollowing out the crevice into a more manageable trench, and digging up a few mosses from clusters a dozen feet away to replant by her hollow. The actions weren't strenuous by any means, but Kisara begins to feel the need to sleep tug at her mind until she returns to the cover of the hollow, with an improvised bed of mosses for a pillow.

She doesn't want to sleep—this is a _game_, with the highest of stakes, but her body resists her mind's imploring. It shouldn't be reassuring, this thought: _I'll return to the game when I awake…I'll run and hide again tomorrow…tomorrow…_

This is still a game. Every _game has a solution—a way to win! I just have to find it._

…_tomorrow…_

_

* * *

__Kisara blinks, letting her eyes adjust to the dreary, misty light. The air is heavier—as though it has just rained, but the ground is still dry and flat as always, so she knows that has not happened—and Kisara almost stumbles over a small collection of flat, rectangular-shaped rocks set up in a line running from her foot and curling off into a spiral._

_She spots more of the same stones, and bends down to pick one up to examine it further._

"_Don't touch that."_

_Kisara turns around, surprised. Bakura is lying face-down on the ground, lining up more of the rectangular stones. She glances around her, for the first time taking in the scene around her—_

_There must be hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe._

_Lines of the little rocks curve in zigzagging patterns on all sides of her, combining and separating into an endless array of patterns and Kisara finds she can't move or risk stepping on one or knocking more over—she doesn't know why, but for some reason the idea strikes her that to do so would be a very grave thing to do. _

"_What are you doing?" She asks him, still turning around and around to try and count them all._

"_How long did this take?"_

_She could have asked a more intelligent question, but for the moment it is the strongest question in her mind. Bakura has seven more stones in his hands, and lines them up with artful precision, taking an extra minute with the last one. _

"_Two days," he responds evenly. "But it will be worth it. Watch."_

_She watches the concentration in his expression as he curls back the index finger on his right hand before striking the first stone. It topples over, striking the second, which begins a chain reaction that topples the rest, spiraling out until all Kisara can see are the twisting rocks covering the ground for miles around them. They watch together as the rocks converge, the patterns falling and snaking around until the final stone falls to rest at Kisara's feet._

_His satisfied smirk grows as Kisara bends down to pick up the stone. The edges are smoothly polished, and one side is covered with small scratches and indentation while the other has a tiny picture on it that Kisara cannot make out._

"_What are you—?"_

_He makes his way over to her, not bothering to avoid the fallen stones, pressing them into the ground with his footsteps. He lifts one hand to hers and curls her fingers around the stone in her palm._

"_This one is yours."_

"_What's going on, Bakura?" She asks, even though she knows she will get no answer._

"_You're still not ready yet for the answers, but you will be," he says. "Soon. You'll know when you are."_

"_How long?" She wants to know. _

"_Only you know that, Kisara."_

_

* * *

_She awakes more aggravated than before—what does it all mean? A golden Ring with the powers to connect souls, to divine location, and more Kisara has not even dreamt about—combined with the strange and unfamiliar, to the most pressing question Kisara can remember: _Why am I here?_

In this kingdom of oblivion, with a throne of petrified wood and a Ring for a crown, knowledge is not your existence. The games they play, momentarily forgotten—seven days remain.

She lifts her hand and looks at the small stone tablet inside her palm—the etchings look familiar, the drawing of a magnificent creature with wings and claws that could be her salvation.

She can feel it now—the stirrings of the dragon inside of her soul. It tries to tell her something, but Kisara cannot listen, not when sound is so scarce and sleep would feel so nice. To rest forever…to forget about everything…everyone…wouldn't that be nice?

Sleep claws at her muscles and her mind.

_Fight it!_

Ah, so that's what the dragon wants. Kisara is too tired to follow its commands today.

_Win the game! _

What game? Oh yes, that one—the important one. How could she have lost her focus like that?

_Remember why I brought you here!_

Recollection is not optional.

It is time.

* * *

_Bakura and Kisara walk together down a wide, trodden lane, its path established through a history of previous travelers and the occasion of its destination._

"_Come. There is something I want to show you."_

_She follows, past a dented and rusted wrought-iron fence, its post half-buried into the ground. It is open, as if waiting for them._

"_Where are we?" She asks._

"_Don't you recognize this place?"_

_The dirt path stretches as far as Kisara can see. Alongside the edges, spaced equally apart and back from the path, are tall, identical black stone tablets. Each has an engraving of a creature upon it—Kisara can see giant insects and sea creatures to unidentifiable monsters and beasts. They seem almost alive, engraved with such exquisite detail that captures every hint of their movement and expression. _

_Kisara turns to watch Bakura. His eyes also follow each of the stone tablets, but not out of curiosity or confusion—rather, he seems almost bored, and Kisara begins to find it difficult to keep up with his fast pace._

"_Hey! Slow down!"_

"_Turn here." Bakura guides her down another, smaller path, still lined with the same tablets. Kisara knows she has seen something like this before, but never like this. It didn't make sense—funerary practices for Shadow monsters?_

"_Is this a cemetery?" She asks. Bakura tugs on her arm to get her to walk faster. _

"_I don't have all day. I'm supposed to be chasing _you_, remember?" He can't hide the sarcasm in his voice, and Kisara can't ignore it. _

"_Here we are." _

_They have reached the end of the line. The final two stones are set aside from the rest, surrounded by the remnants of nature—mosses and tall grass seem to grow into the stone, and a few of the thin, petrified trees grow up to cover the tops of the headstones with a curtain of hanging moss. Kisara can see a few dried flowers tucked into the undergrowth, with a few climbing vines intertwining around the two gravestones._

"_What happened here?"_

"_Take a look around you, Kisara," He says, the words so eerily familiar that she obeys without question. "What do you see?"_

_The inscriptions on the stone need no further explanation. She knows them both quite well—on one, a twisting, muscled monster with the lower body of a snake raises his arms towards the sky, and on the other, Kisara can see a dragon, her mouth open in a silent scream, wings opened, neck bared. She can almost see the rippling scales on her back moving in wasted effort, the pain evident in her blue eyes._

"_Our ká!" Kisara has found the wellspring of her emotion, and it overpowers her until she can feel tears stinging at her eyes. "What's happening to us?"_

"_Time will not wait for us. I know this—what passes us by above, in the world of the living," Bakura tells her stiffly._

"_Then what are we?" She almost doesn't want to voice it. "…Dead?"_

"_I'm afraid so. Don't you remember?"_

"_I don't want to." With his words, she does—throwing herself in the way of a blast of light, shockingly warm, and then nothing but darkness and deep, peaceful rest until she opened her eyes here. The memory is painfully present, reawakened after such a strong attempt to suppress it. She doesn't want to believe it. The dead don't dream. _

_She hugs her body with her arms, wishing for warmth. "Then why are we alone?"_

"_This is not the place humans go when they die—this is not the afterlife or the Shadow Realm. Rather—this is the place our ká retreat to in death—a graveyard for all of the Shadow monsters. I believe we were dragged along unintentionally by ours."_

"_Why?" She turns her tear-streaked face towards him—she cannot look at the gravestones anymore, the sight makes her feel sick, and so does the knowledge, but that she unfortunately cannot ignore._

"_How strong is your relationship to your dragon?"_

"_The white dragon with the blue eyes? She saved my life," Kisara replies. "She saves lives. She is like another part of my soul."_

"_Diabound is…an amalgamation," Bakura says. "Of my soul and the souls he has consumed. When you commit a murder, your heart becomes weighted down with the traces of your victim's souls. When you die, your heart is weighed against the feather of Ma'at. Those whose souls are lighter than the feather can pass on—those whose are not are devoured. Such would have been my fate if Diabound had not brought me here instead."_

"_What are you saying?" _

"_Have you ever committed a murder, Kisara?" The words are spoken slowly, an amused smile growing on his face at her distress._

"_N-No. Of course not," she stutters._

"_Think hard now, Kisara. Remember _everything_. Has your ká ever consumed another's?" _

_She gasps, feeling her legs suddenly grow weak and she has to clutch at Bakura to keep from falling. "When I was imprisoned by the Priest Akunadin, he made me fight other prisoners to awaken my ká. I didn't want to, but I had no choice! That's not—I didn't—"_

_Bakura lets her lean against him; lets her sob into his shoulder until she can cry no more. Her white hair and skin, white soul—they are tainted, just like his. They are more alike than they realize—the two of them, and their murderous ká. Connected together—bound through their hosts. _

"_Look closer," he says, pointing with his left hand towards the two gravesites. _

_How had she not noticed it before? The stones are standing over what should be a filled grave, but the soil below the stones has been dug out, revealing two deep, empty holes. _

"_They're…empty," she states. "But how can that be?"_

"_We are in limbo, so they can not truly die, yet. They depend on us to survive." He answers her question matter-of-factly, regarding the empty gravesites with anticipation._

"_Now, I believe I should collect my payment for your acquired information?" He continues, raising his own dirt-streaked fingers to brush away Kisara's tears. Her skin is warm, almost burning his fingertips. _

_They are entirely too close for Kisara's liking, but Bakura has locked his arms around her own, holding her in place._

"_I believe one will be more than satisfactory," he says. "Close your eyes, Kisara."_

_She does, and a second later Bakura allows the broadest of smirks to cross his face, triumphant and self-satisfied. The second following he has kissed her—just one, like he promised—but he makes it count, only separating when she makes a deliciously pained noise and his own lungs begin to protest the lack of air. _

_She is weak, and he is strong. If only the two of them were complete—without their ká they are nothing. _

"_I can bring them back," he says quietly. "But to do so I need the Ring. My connection to it is strongest; my knowledge of it is infinite. Give in to me. Lose the game."_

_

* * *

_"_You said you have never lost a game of your own design."_

"_That's right, Kisara."_

"_What about…other games?"_

"…"

"_Have you ever lost a game?"_

"_Once."_

"_What happened?"_

"_I ended up here."_

_

* * *

__Kisara does not even remember waking up, but how can one go back to sleep without first waking?_

_The two are lying on the grass in a large meadow, staring up at the empty, dark sky. The grass is stiff and itches, but Kisara does not complain. Her body is perpendicular to his, her head resting on his chest. It is not comfortable, yet she doesn't even think of moving._

"_Three days left, you know," Bakura tells her. His voice is flat and even, but Kisara can sense a tinge of frustration. "You're just afraid you're going to lose. You'll do anything to win, won't you?"_

"_Yes," he responds smoothly. "I underestimated you. This could be my favorite game yet."_

"_Is everything a game to you?"_

"_Yes."_

_She pauses. "I didn't think of it at the time, but…it is impossible to keep time here. How will we know when the time has passed?"_

_She glances up; his expression is endearingly bewildered; the combination of irritation and disbelief in his eyes enough to threaten Kisara into hastily stifled laughter. _

"_Damn. I didn't think of that." _

"_Well, what now?" She asks. "What do we do?"_

"_Continue the game, of course," he responds quickly. "This doesn't change a thing. I want what's mine. We're not done with this game yet. I don't even need three days—I'll find you in one."_

_She ignores his words, focusing instead on another sound—something far clearer and closer._

"_What's that sound?"_

_Before she can even finish the question she realizes that it's his heartbeat. It's the loudest sound in this entire world, and the most comforting sound she has ever known. _

_

* * *

_Kisara wakes and instantly starts screaming.

While she slept, the roots of the tree above her had grown to encompass her body, twisting around her arms and legs, digging sharply into her skin.

The sudden clarity of her situation feels like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her head—all thoughts of sleep vanished, replaced by a sobering, instant alertness.

She can barely see through the cocoon around her, ensconced as she had become into the network of roots and soil. Kisara claws at the roots, tearing them away from her body. There is not much room to move, and the panic fills her as she struggles to push a hand through a break in the roots towards the outside, trying desperately to break out of the prison that had grown over her.

She has not ceased screaming, and her throat is raw from the effort but she cannot help it—for every movement she brushes up against the wall of her prison—the trench she had dug herself—and as she finally rips apart a knot of the thin, wiry roots she can see the sky and the outline of the tree above her as through a keyhole, but now the canopy of dangling moss feels threatening and dangerous, the transplanted mosses and grasses further caging her in, striving to keep her underground forever.

She dug the trench herself.

She dug her own grave.

With one last desperate attempt, Kisara claws the roots apart and thrusts her head and shoulders out of the nest, struggling to free herself even as the roots catch on her hair and clothing. Her arms are covered with tiny scratches, stinging from the sweat coating her skin.

"No!" She screams, ripping apart vines and branches freely now, not caring that the hem of her dress was even more ragged and ripped and most of her fingernails had broken from the effort. She would not die in this coffin. She had to live…for herself…for her dragon…for Bakura…for the game.

She wrenches herself free and crawls away from the hole, dragging herself as her arms and legs are still shaking uncontrollably from the adrenaline.

The Ring is safe and unmoving, and Kisara pulls herself to her feet and staggers away from what would have been her final resting place, moving towards the clearing. Under any other conditions she would have avoided it, but she follows her instincts now, telling her to get away

She makes it to the middle of the clearing before she stops to catch her breath, resting her hands on her knees.

_I did it! I'm free!_

"Ki-_sa_-ra." The voice shocks her and she spins, finding herself face-to-face with Bakura.

"I found you."

Eyes wide, unbelieving, knees shaking, she can only watch as Bakura reaches out and grabs the cord of the Ring with one hand, tugging on it to pull her closer.

"I win." His smile is wide, all teeth. It looks off, like he's never known how to smile properly in his life, or never had a reason to learn how.

"I'll take this back, now," he says, slipping the Ring over her head and placing it carefully over his own.

Kisara can only stare, feeling everything come crashing down around her.

_I…lost?_

"And now to claim my final prize." His voice is loud and exultant as he grasps her hand in his own, tightening his fingers around hers. "You're mine. You'll never leave me again." He brings her hand to his lips and places a kiss across her knuckles before cradling her palm against his scarred cheek.

She hates herself for feeling something deep in her stomach when he touches her, or feeling happy when he looks at her—even like this. She rips her hand away from his grasp. "You don't—you don't have to do this to get me! It's sick—I don't _want_ to leave you. _I _want _you_. I can't—I can't _take_ this!"

She turns and runs from him, not caring where as long as she doesn't have to face him again—for her entire life, others have wanted to control her, for either her distinctive appearance or the power of her _ká_. For once in her life, she would not let her choices be taken from her.

Bakura watches her run, refocusing his attention on the Ring, enjoying the feeling of its power returning to him. He had won—and he would let nothing stop him.

"Diabound!"

The monster appears behind Bakura, and he shouts his orders. "Follow her! Return her to me at once!"

The monster refuses to move, but raises his head to watch the girl as she runs through the thickening forest. His granite-colored wings curl and unfurl as Bakura repeats his command.

"Why won't you answer me? Why won't you follow my orders?"

Shaking with rage, his thoughts diluted from his anger, he reaches into his pocket and removes two small stones. The tall grasses are dry and brittle, the thin trees even more so. With one solitary hesitation, he brings the two stones together, striking them quickly until a spark bounces off, igniting the grasses.

"Diabound!" Bakura leaps away from the growing flames, which spread outward with a speed that only grows with each passing second. The flames are hotter than fire should be, and Diabound lifts Bakura to his shoulder as the flames consume the entire clearing and beyond, quickly overcoming the trees and anything else caught in their path. He cannot see Kisara anymore, hidden as the forest floor has become by the thick smoke and carpet of flame.

"I...killed her." The fear stabs briefly at his heart—weighted down with so much bloodshed, adding Kisara's own to the list would crack his own completely.

"Kisara!" If she is his prize, then her life is his to do with as he chooses—yet the more he watches the convulsing flames he realizes he would never want her to die if it meant she was taken from him. The smoke chokes his lungs and Diabound soars higher into the air to protect his master.

He hardly wants to believe it when he sees a flash of blue in the sky. She is dead, and with it, her ká—but he is stunned into silence when the most magnificent dragon descends from the clouds before him, with Kisara neatly tucked under one wing.

"Kisara…"

Her hair is singed and her once-white dress is stained with soot, but none of it matters to him—her soul and his sing out to one another. Only combined together can good and evil form a complete circle; without each other, they are incomplete.

The world burns below them but neither watch as the fire, after consuming everything in its path, burns itself out. Diabound and the Dragon descend towards the ground, releasing their hosts to each other's care.

The sky is dark from the smoke and ash and the ground is charred and black, the air filled with the crackling sound of still-smoldering brush. What was once dead and empty is now alive, filled with the potential for new life.

Kisara steps closer to Bakura and smacks him with one hand, before gesturing towards the charred landscape. "What was _that_ for? If you wanted my attention, you had only to ask—no games necessary. I'm not your prize, but that doesn't mean I'm not still yours."

Bakura is still standing stock-still, and the dragon behind Kisara huffs in satisfaction. All the times she has asked for the dragon's protection, when she never answered—until the fire, there was nothing to protect Kisara from. The dragon could not protect her from its own heart. Kisara remembers his words—

_All souls who have possessed the Ring are connected forever._

"Forever?"

"When I say forever, I mean it, woman," he growls, before lifting the cord of the Ring and slipping it over both of their heads.

"We'll leave this place together."

Kisara glances up at both of their ká.

"All of us?"

"Yes."

Kisara looks up at him, and Bakura treats her to a smile—a real one.

"Just close your eyes."

She shuts her eyes yet she can't help the smile that spreads across her own face. She trusts him, and it doesn't matter what she sees when she opens her eyes again, only that she will still see him.

**The End.**

**

* * *

**A/N:

1) Episode 13 introduces the idea of the "card graveyard" as a physical location; this is where Kisara and Bakura are sent. In episode 208, an imprisoned Kisara calls upon the power of the BEWD to destroy a criminal, and in episode 214 Kisara dies.

2) "Slash and Burn" is a cultivation technique where sections of forests are burned so that nutrients can be returned to the soil, making it more fertile as crops can be planted in the ashes. New life springs from the decimation of the old.

3) Kashipping is crazy o_o; I hope I did it justice!

4) Reviews would be much valued and appreciated! Thank you so much for reading!

~Jess


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